


Despite Consequences (A Sequel to Consequences)

by Pamela Rose (pamela_rose)



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamela_rose/pseuds/Pamela%20Rose
Summary: Bodie forgets he's no longer George of the Jungle. Now he's sorry. Or maybe he's not. Doyle doesn't want to play Jane. Or maybe he does. Anyhow, it's all about The Game. Or maybe it's not.Meanwhile, Cowley just wants them to shut up whinging and do their damn jobs.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Kudos: 21





	Despite Consequences (A Sequel to Consequences)

**Author's Note:**

> Consequences was in the first envelope of stories we got from the B/D circuit (courtesy of the Illinois crowd) back in the early '80's. The story was so powerful and well crafted many other fan writers jumped on the sequel band wagon--I was only one of them. This was my attempt written in 1984. I highly suggest that you read Consequences before this one.
> 
> My copy of this story was lost in a flood many years ago. Many thanks to Frances for Proslib who kindly sent a copy when none of my 'friends' could find theirs. ;-)

(A sequel to “[Consequences](http://www.thecircuitarchive.com/tca/archive/16/consequences.html)” by Tarot and AN Other)

Ray Doyle was searching. A copious bit of his self-respect was AWOL and it was crucial to find the damn thing.

He blamed Bodie, of course. It was easier than admitting he was as much at fault for the firestorms that periodically struck them. His pride chafed at the fact that all that cold fish of a partner had to do was offer a light touch or look at him a certain way, and his traitorous body responded like Pavlov's bloody dogs. Salivating was the least of it.

The worst knock of all was that he wasn't even sure he wanted it to stop. It felt too good and Raymond Doyle had long ago recognized sensuality as his greatest weakness. If he couldn't give up his fondness for hot cocoa or silk sheets, how could he give up Bodie? It was a craving that, while perhaps not as lethal as heroin, could certainly give nicotine or caffeine a run for the money.

He rolled over lazily in bed, inspecting the cause of his irritation. Bodie even slept with that damn smug smile on his mouth. A beautiful mouth, Doyle was forced to note, easily as sexy as any woman's Ray had had the privilege to slip his tongue into. It tasted differently, of course. Not sweet, but bittersweet, almost metallic. The tongue wider, stronger, taking abrupt and ruthless control. The teeth larger, wonderfully straight and white; making Doyle think with amusement of all the time boringly middle-class young William must have spent at the dentist in his formative years.

Doyle traced his fingers down Bodie's perfect nose to touch on that wide mouth. He moved over it lightly, trying to smooth out that wicked sleeping smile. It merely deepened, then opened to suck in his fingertip and bite gently.

“You're awake.”

Bodie released the finger. “Playing Helen Keller, old son?” The blue eyes opened, catching him before he could look away, locking their gaze with the practiced ease of a gaoler turning the key. “Don’t stop there; feel me up some more.”

“You’re too easy by half.”

Bodie chuckled. “S’you that wants to fight it, Sunshine. “‘m willin’ ‘n eager.”

Doyle gritted his teeth at the purposeful reminder of the rape. Bodie was pushing him—testing him, maybe. “So you are,” he answered evenly, “but it’ll have to keep. We’ve work to do.”

The blue eyes glowed, luring him in like moth to flame. “We’ve time. Come here.”

The abrupt order set his back up, checking his descent toward that mouth. He sat up and reached for his jeans, absurdly pleased at his ability to resist the temptation. _Crush out the cigarette; refuse the second cup of tea, one shot of whisky only, resist the morning fuck . . ._ But his hands were shaking from withdrawal. _Damn you, Bodie. How can you become an addiction after only three days?_ Bodie’s loving was strong stuff. Too strong.

Bodie watched him, still smiling that wolf-smile. “No shower, mate?”

_And stand naked in your bath, just waiting for your hands to slip in the curtain? No thanks chum. Your ‘boy’ is cutting back. Maybe I’ll give up showers for Lent._

“I’ve got to pop by my flat anyway. Clean duds and all that.”

“Wear some of mine,” Bodie offered generously.

“Tired of tripping on your trouser legs. Thanks for the offer.” He headed for the steps, carrying his shirt and shoes. _Thank you, sir, for a wonderful evening—but my reputation no longer bears close scrutiny, alas._

“See you later,” Bodie called after him.

_Unfortunately I never stop seeing you, whether you’re with me or not. Isn’t that a laugh? I’ve got a full colour plate of you behind each eyelid._

It was a cold morning and Doyle had forgotten his jacket. He didn’t even consider going back for it.

* * *

“I do hope you lads don’t have any pressing social engagements. They’ll have to be cancelled for the duration.” Cowley slipped on his bifocals and shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk.

“Duration of what, sir?” Bodie was standing in his usual parade rest—half mocking, half-unconscious respect. Doyle was slouched against a chair arm.

For a second Cowley wasn’t sure who had spoken; the two were even beginning to sound alike. His gaze pinned on Doyle, who glanced away immediately, looking strangely flushed.

“Sir?” Bodie repeated politely. “What’s up?”

Cowley brought his attention back to the matter at hand. “The Mayor of Belfast is scheduled to attend a conference here in London for the next three days. The Home Secretary has made a point of asking us to make sure nothing goes awry.”

“I should think security would be handled by—”

He cut Bodie off impatiently. “We won’t be sitting with him, of course. He’ll be watched closer than the Queen; you can be sure of that. Our job is to make sure there are no demonstrations of dissatisfaction—violent ones, that is. Every IRA terrorist in London is liable to be crawling out from under his rock on this one. We have to make sure they stick to rhetoric of the less explosive variety.”

Cowley flipped through a thick folder until he found the sheet he wanted. “Daniel Sheen. He’ll be your pigeon for the next three days. I want his car and phone tapped, his movements reported right down to the number of times he uses the WC, is that clear?”

Bodie took the paper when Doyle didn’t reach for it. “But Sheen’s been clean for two years, sir, since he got out of the slammer. Doesn’t seem a likely man for trouble now.”

“Aye, Bodie, but he still has some nasty friends, and Sheen was a top man with plastics in his day. Better safe than sorry. You and Doyle keep close tabs on him and I’ll sleep better for it.”

Bodie looked disgusted. “Stakeout? Not our favourite party, eh Ray?”

Doyle shrugged. “Seems like a waste of time. There’s scads others worse than him.”

“And they’re taken care of, 4.5. I’ll thank you to mind your own nose; I’ll take care of assignments, if that’s quite all right with you. We’re short staffed, though, so you’ll not have much back-up on this one. And you’ll have to spell each other. You’re not to leave Sheen’s doorstep until His Honour is safely back to Ireland.”

“I don’t like it,” Bodie muttered.

Cowley caught the remark. “Were you under the impression I lived to please you, Bodie?”

Bodie straightened uncomfortably. “Uh, no, sir. Definitely the other way round, sir.” He glanced at Ray, for whom the comment had been intended in the first place, expecting some support, but the green eyes were fastened on the toes of his running shoes as if memorizing the scuff marks.

“That’s comforting. I wouldn’t want to have to disillusion you. Get out of here and pick up your equipment from stores.”

Doyle spoke without looking up. “How do we work this, sir? One inside, one out?”

Cowley noted the bemused look on the taller man’s face. Nor had he missed Doyle’s unusual quietness. But he had no time for these personal squabbles; let them work it out the best they could—on their time. “No, you’re both inside and together on this one. Can’t have too much movement or Sheen’ll get suspicious. We don’t want any complaints of harassment. You’ll just have to bear with each other’s company for seventy-two hours.”

As expected, Bodie grumbled good-naturedly, “Not my perfect idea of a holiday companion . . .”

But it was the quick flash of emotion in Doyle’s eyes that shocked Cowley. It vanished before he could be certain, but it looked almost like fear.

* * *

Two men dressed in coveralls blazoned JACK’S PEST CONTROL spent a busy morning living up to their advertising in Daniel Sheen’s building. However, they ended up leaving more bugs than they disposed of; one in every room of Sheen’s three-room flat, in fact, and another on his telephone. After that, they made several trips to the attic, trudging large cans of insecticide and brandishing the spray nozzles like professional gunmen.

On the last trip, when most of the tenants had decided to take long walks until the smell died down, and without benefit of an audience, they pulled the attic steps up after them.

Outside on the street, Akins noisily closed the doors of the one and only lorry of Jack’s imaginary PEST CONTROL and drove away. Bodie watched him go through the grimy attic window.

“You think we have everything?”

Doyle unscrewed the cap from the can and began stacking the last of the supplies on the floor with the rest. “After four trips up those bloody steps, we’d better have it all. Give us a hand with the transmitter, will you? It’s stuck in the bottom.”

Bodie moved over to help, stooping to avoid banging his head against the rafters. “This is going to be a trace cramped, mate. After three days, I’m going to walk like a bloomin’ question mark.”

“Stop bitchin’ and let’s get this stuff stowed before our boyo comes home. We’re right over his flat, an’ I doubt he’ll take your big feet for mice if you keep stomping across his ceiling.”

“I’ve been told I have the tread of a cat,” Bodie retorted in mock affront. “In Angola we tracked—”

“Well get your paws working and check if the bugs are on line,” Doyle snarled impatiently. “I want to get this lot settled.”

Bodie made a comic face. “Snappish, aren’t we? On our monthly?”

Doyle glared at him, picked up the field glasses and moved to the other side of the attic, peering out to check the back alley.

For a second Bodie sat there, puzzling over Ray’s unwillingness to join in their usual bantering. He shrugged and started setting up the surveillance equipment.

* * *

They had a long wait before Sheen finally arrived. Bodie had spent his time puttering through the junk piled over the attic floor, making rude comments on legless manikins and a pile of moulding Victorian novels, while Doyle silently kept watch.

“Ah, all the comforts of home,” Bodie announced, pulling out a stained, ragged mattress from under a pile of paper boxes. “We’ll sleep in style, mate. You did pack the designer sheets, didn’t you?”

“He’s here,” Doyle announced quietly. “7.2 is just rounding the corner.”

The R/T beeped. “3.7,” Bodie answered.

“7.2 here. Think he’s sticking?”

Bodie glanced at Doyle who nodded. “Looks like it. Take a powder, Alex.”

“Gladly. Been sitting outside a sweatshop for ten hours. Our boy believes in overtime.”

Bodie grinned. “A member of the honest working class. You should take note.”

“I’d rather follow your example and sit on my arse. 7.2 out.”

He put down the R/T and turned to Doyle. “What’s he up to, Sunshine?”

“Making tea from the sound of it. I think he does have a cold. Got a nasty cough.”

“Maybe you should run down and take his temp.”

Doyle ignored him. “Got the telly on now. I think he’s settling for the night.”

“So much for dangerous felons. Do they all catch Benny Hill, do y’think?”

Doyle glanced at his watch. “Well he doesn’t have the newscast on, and if he was interested in current events, I reckon he’d be glued to it.”

Bodie stood and stretched as much as he could with the low ceiling. “Looks like he’s abandoned the hot follies of youth. We’re liable to have a boring time of it here.”

“Yeah, waste of bloody time!” Doyle jerked off the headset and tossed it to one side. “Damn Cowley.”

Bodie smiled and moved over to hunker down beside him. He ruffled the red/brown curls. “‘S not so bad, though. Nice to not get shot at for a few days, right? And we’ve got most of the creature comforts.” He grimaced. “Except for peeing in a slop jar. I suppose Cowley expected us to hold it for three days. Least we could do for Queen and Country.”

Doyle pulled away from the touch on his hair, reaching for the headset again. Bodie stopped him.

“Hey, what’s up, mate?”

“You’d better keep an eye on his motor. I’ll hang onto this for a while. We can switch off later.”

Bodie moved his cramped legs to another position, watching his partner curiously. “No reason to watch his car. 7.2 bugged it. We’ll know if it starts up.”

“Just the same . . .”

“What? You’re awfully conscientious over what you figured a waste of resources three minutes ago. What’s your problem?”

“No problem. We’re on the job, that’s all.”

Bodie leaned over and tangled his fingers in the curls again, pulling the other man toward him. “And on every job you get a few breaks . . .” Doyle couldn’t stop him this time, and found himself being very thoroughly and soundly kissed. It felt too good to stop, so it continued for some minutes. When they came up for air, Doyle’s skin was tingling and Bodie’s eyes were glowing hotly.

“Nice . . . very nice . . .” Bodie murmured and zeroed in for a second. Doyle averted his head.

“Stop it, Bodie.”

“What’s this? Playing hard to get, Raymond, my boy?”

Doyle jerked away, furious. “I told you not to call me that.”

Bodie blinked in surprise. “What? Boy?” He shrugged. “Sorry. No offense meant.”

“Wasn’t there?”

There was a moment of silence as Bodie digested that. “Listen, Ray, let’s save the fighting for later, shall we? A brawl is liable to tip off our man downstairs, wouldn’t you say? Whatever your problem is, let it ride for now.”

Doyle took a deep breath. They had instinctive kept their voices low, but he knew how volatile their rows could get. “Right. This is no place for any of this.”

Bodie smiled lazily. “At least for anything noisy. The quieter pursuits, however . . .” He trailed off as Ray grimaced and turned away. “Okay, I get your point. We’ll be as pure as two maiden aunties. Did you happen to bring a deck of cards? It’s going to be a long three days.”

* * *

Ray Doyle woke to the sound of rain on the slate roof and the delicious warmth of a musty quilt. An even warmer hand was stroking down his spine beneath his shirt. A tongue tip inserted itself in his ear and licked delicately. He quivered helplessly as the fire shot down to his groin.

“Damn you, Bodie.”

A throaty chuckle answered him, and the hand slid round to the front, grazing over his stomach in a tantalizing sweep. He gasped as two fingers found a nipple and squeezed just enough to harden it.

“Good morning, Sunshine. Our would-be terrorist has just bustled off to work, lunch pail in hand. It’s a good day for goldfish and guppies. You’ll be glad to know he wore his rubbers and took extra hankies, though. Still got the sniffles.”

Doyle continued floating in the hazy warmth, letting his body anticipate that hand’s next move. “Mmmmm.” He snuggled back against the broad form, feeling absurdly small in comparison, but some secret part of him enjoyed the sensation of Bodie’s larger frame, bending his to fit tightly to it. He could feel Bodie’s cock pressing hard against his upper thigh.

The lips moved from his ear to his throat, nibbling hungrily. Doyle’s head arching back so their mouths could meet. He welcomed the tongue that invaded his, already too lost to protest anything. Doyle felt strangely abandoned when Bodie suddenly pulled away.

But Bodie was tugging his shirt over his head, his own chest panting as hard as Doyle’s. “Come on,” he said impatiently, “take your clothes off.”

There was a split second when Doyle almost told him to stuff it—but then felt close to hysterical laughter when he realized Bodie most certainly planned to do just that. To avoid that fate, Doyle impulsively reached out and took Bodie another way.

Bodie tossed his head back and moaned as Ray’s mouth enveloped him. His fingers twined convulsively in the thick curls. “That’s good . . .” he whispered shakily, “so good . . .” He was on his knees with Doyle’s arms wrapped around him, urging his thrusts. Ray looked up, drinking in the incandescent glow of pleasure on the handsome face. He felt the power he wielded at that moment, and loved it, wanted to hold it. He owned Bodie at that second. Only he. His mouth and tongue were Bodie’s universe, his link with that intangible peak of climax. He was the power that could give it or refuse it. And at that instant it was the most important thing in his life—the only thing. Doyle controlled that, and it was an intoxicating knowledge. He clung to it even as Bodie’s flesh surged in his mouth, and the strangled cry of delight heralded the end of it.

Doyle almost hated the spurts of liquid that filled his throat, even though his own cock hardened even more in symbiotic pleasure, for it halted his fleeting power over the other man. Now Bodie would take charge again. Part of him leapt in excitement at the thought, but part of him objected. He was positive the dichotomy would destroy him.

Bodie collapsed onto the mattress, breathing heavily, smiling with satisfaction. He pulled Ray to him roughly, kissing him. “That was lovely, mate,” he panted. “You’ve a talent.” His hands reached to unfasten Doyle’s belt. “Now let me do you . . .”

“No need,” Doyle said weakly, though he didn’t have the strength of will to stop him.

Bodie snorted, peeling down the tight jeans. “Self-denial a new fad you’re trying? Don’t be daft.”

As the tongue flicked over the head of Doyle’s cock, he closed his eyes helplessly, positioning back like a sacrificial feast. The perceptions coursed through him like molten lava, boiling over and erupting too quickly into the devouring mouth.

His eyes were still tightly closed when Bodie moved up to lie beside him. But when Bodie reached out to hold him, he rolled away and stood.

“I’m going to have a wash. Why don’t you light the sterno for some tea, will you?”

Bodie propped himself up on an elbow and watched as his partner splashed some of their stored water into an old washbasin. “You’re really a beauty, you know that?”

Doyle’s back stiffened. “Since when am I some bird that you check over my points?”

“I didn’t mean . . . Christ, you’re touchy lately. What’s with you?”

“The chatting up is supposed to come before, not after, innit?”

“Ray . . .”

“Are you going to fix that tea, or not?”

Bodie let out his breath slowly. “Anything you say, mate. Coming right up.”

* * *

“I’m beginning to feel like Anne Frank,” Bodie grumbled, as they neared the end of a rainy afternoon under the eaves. “Cowley’s going to end up with two claustrophobic agents. Are there any biscuits left?”

Doyle handed him the tin.

Bodie regarded him dolefully. “‘Course your incessant chattering is a tad wearing on the nerves, too.” But Doyle didn’t rise to the bait any better than he had for the last six hours. Bodie felt a surge of irritation that he squelched with determination. He didn’t want to bicker with Ray, just coax him out of his sour mood.

He picked his next words with caution, knowing Ray was like a banty rooster just waiting for an excuse to put his spurs up.

“Have a heart, mate. It’s either have a conversation with you or re-read _The Mill on the Floss_.”

That charmed an unwilling smile. “Try _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ —thought I saw it in the stack.”

“Too swashbuckling for my taste.” Bodie gave an impish smile. “Besides, I don’t have to ‘seek him here, we seek him there’—I’ve already found him.”

Doyle was unwilling to acknowledge that, but turned around reluctantly. “What do you want to talk about?”

Bodie settled back contentedly; this was the best response he’d received all day. He pondered the question seriously for a moment, deciding it left a lot of dangerous ground. “So tell me the story of your life, young Ray. The abridged version, if you please.”

Doyle’s gaze fixed on his partner, a strange glint in the green eyes. “You know it a sight too well as it is. Better you should tell me yours.”

“The abridged version?” Bodie mocked lightly. Doyle’s expression changed minutely, so he hastened to say, “You’d find it too, too boring, I’m sure.” Then added, “Besides, you wig-off every time I mention Africa.”

But Bodie didn’t get the comeback he’d expected.

“So talk about it now. I’m listening.”

Bodie’s eyes widened; he shook his head warily. “I don’t think . . .”

“Talk,” Doyle repeated harshly, then almost in a rough whisper, “about The Game.”

It was his partner’s turn to evade, uncomfortable with the hawkish desperation in Doyle’s eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about. Why bring it up now?”

“That should be obvious, Bodie. And it was you who brought it up—five days ago, remember?”

Bodie’s jaw set stubbornly. “I told you then it had nothing to do with us. Not really.”

“But it did, damn it all. You _know_ it did. Don’t I rate knowin’ more than the scrap you’ve told me?”

The blue eyes hardened. “There’s no point, is all. Drop it.”

“ _No_. Tell me.”

Bodie chewed his lower lip, feeling the anger build up inside him. What was Ray after? Why start this when it wasn’t going to make either of them feel any better about how it began with them? But Ray stood obstinately in front of him, obviously unwilling to leave off until he had his answers.

“What’d you expect me to tell you, Sunshine? It was just something you lived with, for Christsake. Like you lived with the rest of the muck. Like watching maggots feed off two-day corpses, or like . . . seeing one of your mates go up under a grenade and feeling pieces of him rain down on your face and spatter in your mouth. That wasn’t so jolly either. It was a damn sight worse than the stupid bloody Game!”

Ray didn’t flinch. “It’s no good, Bodie. I’ve seen as bad right here in London, and you know it. A fourteen year old with his guts ripped out with a shiv isn’t such a pretty thing either. But that’s all life and death, whether it’s in jungles or alleyways. What we’re discussing is somethin’ very different.”

“Yes, it’s bloody-well different!” Bodie snarled. “Compared to the other, it was nothing! It wasn’t important, can’t you see that?”

“It was important to me,” Doyle replied quietly.

Bodie caught his breath. “Why? Because you lost?” He laughed harshly. “Well join the club, old son. We all lose occasionally.”

“You lost?”

“Yes, I lost,” Bodie snapped. “And won. And lost again. What the hell is this all about? Why can’t we go on from where we are now, not back? Can’t you leave it alone?”

Before Doyle could answer, there was a call on the R/T.

“7.2 to the nest. Your chick’s on his way home. Left work early. May be up to something. Out.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension still crackling between them.

“Probably just his cold,” Doyle suggested, but their eyes were still saying other things.

“Yeah, no doubt.” Bodie picked up the R/T. “3.7 here. What’s your position?”

“About two blocks east of you. He’s heading home all right. Do you see him yet?”

Bodie looked out the window. After a moment, “Yeah, he’s pulling in now. But he’s parking on the street, not the lot.”

“Want me to stick around for a bit, in case he leaves?”

“Yeah, you’d better. We’ll let you know how comfortable he makes himself. 3.7 out.”

When he turned around, Doyle had the headset on and was listening intently.

“What’s he up to, do you think?”

Doyle shook his head and held up his hand for silence. After a moment, he motioned Bodie over and turned up the audio so they could both hear.

“ . . .think I’ve been tailed,” Sheen was saying.

“You’re paranoid, Danny. Why should they be watchin’ you after all this time?” The other voice was male; the Irish lilt in the tone matched Sheen’s, although it was slightly more cultivated.

“Ha, you’d be nervy too, if you were facin’ another five years in Wormwood for just being ‘round the stuff. All they need is an excuse to slap me with violation o’ parole, and me, I’m not givin’ it to ‘em.”

“Relax, Danny. It’s no big thing. You’re just doing me a favour, right? Ian said you’ve got some extra, I’ve got the money. Easy trade.”

There was a pause, then, “Right. So get over here an’ let’s do it and have done. I’m not happy ‘ave it in my flat anyhow.”

“Now?”

“I’m for getting’ it out of me house _now_ , yes.”

“Be there in a quarter of an hour.”

The connection was broken.

Doyle looked at Bodie. “Seems Cowley was right.”

“Ummm. We wait for the other bloke, then get them?”

“Better call HQ first—”

There was a sudden loud crackle from the receiver. Doyle grabbed the headset and switched to another bug. “Damn! He’s found the one on the phone. Sounds like he ripped it right out of the wall.”

Bodie grabbed his gun, checked it quickly and headed for the steps.

“Wait, Bodie, we’d better . . .”

“He’s going to jackrabbit out of here with a bag of plastic explosive. Do you want to lose ‘im?”

Doyle grabbed the R/T as he scrambled after Bodie. “7.2, do you read? This is 4.5. Sheen may make a run for it. He made our bug. Watch the back, will you?”

“Copy. Will do, 4.5.”

“And he’s expecting a guest; we don’t know who. Keep a look out.”

“But 4.5, there’s been no . . .”

But Doyle had signed off and followed Bodie down the attic steps, his own gun at ready. Like his partner, he desperately needed movement, action to release the close coil of tension that wound inside him.

* * *

The two CI5 agents stood in front of Cowley’s desk, looking bruised, tired and not as properly ashamed of themselves as the Controller believed the predicament warranted. He made an effort to correct that.

“Well, now this is a fine thing, isn’t it? I send you two on a job that my maiden aunt could have handled, and you manage to make a perfect hash of it. Pleased with yourselves, are you?”

Bodie looked up. “Sir, I really think, under the circumstances, we came to the only conclusion—”

“Conclusion!” Cowley bellowed. “How the bloody hell could you come to any conclusion going on one slightly questionable phone call and a past record that is over two years long?”

“We’ve moved on less before,” Bodie muttered stubbornly.

“Aye, on _my_ orders. Not on your own not-so-perfect judgment. You stormed in there with all the finesse and consideration of cowboys on a Saturday night binge. You were told to watch the man, not break down his bloody door!”

Bodie smiled weakly. “Well, we did knock first.”

Cowley glared at him, then looked to his silent partner. “And you, Doyle, what’s your opinion of this fiasco?”

Doyle rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, more troubled by the incident than his partner. “A total cockup. We made a mistake.”

“Aye, I’d call it that! There’s Sheen in hospital with a concussion and two cracked ribs, and his friendly neighbour screaming harassment in the Home Secretary’s ear, and the Sunday Supplements drumming up sympathy for the poor man who had paid his dues to society but was still being bugged and tailed and beaten up by the, and I quote, ‘Gestapo police tactics’. . . Aye, _mistake_ , indeed, Doyle.”

“S’not Ray’s fault, sir.” Bodie spoke up. “It was my idea to stop Sheen. I figured he’d skip out once he found the bug. You’ve got to own up that you made us think he was still connected with IRA. The chat on the phone sounded like it could be an explosive deal.”

“He was a _possible_ , Bodie. That means you observe, give me the facts, and I make the decision when and if to move. You’re both just very fortunate that it was a drug deal and you had something to pin on the man, or I’d be making confetti out of your credentials right now.”

“Well . . . he was breaking the law, sir.”

Cowley threw up his hands. “Aye, indeed. A piddling quarter pound of bad quality cocaine and we call out the big guns.”

“I think you’re being a bit harsh, sir.” Bodie was being more immovable than normal.

“Not half as harsh as I ought to be, 3.7. I gave you two this job because you’d both slipped since that Holly situation.”

Doyle’s head jerked up.

“Yes, Doyle, that’s right. You’ve both been acting like cats on a hot stove. I thought a simple stakeout job would calm you down a peg, take some of the edge off until you adjusted yourselves. Obviously not. It seems to have just made you trigger-happy. Well, I’ve had enough of this rot. As of now, you’re both suspended for two weeks.”

Two pairs of eyes widened, but he stared them down remorselessly and continued. “At the end of two weeks, you’ll take an extensive refresher course before I decide whether to put you back on duty. I suggest you settle your . . . emotional snags before then.” He said the word ‘emotional’ as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, and knowing Cowley, it probably did. “Now get out of my sight before I make it a month.”

Bodie caught up with Doyle in the corridor. “Hey, mate, it’s not such dreadful news, is it? We’ve two free weeks. Look how long we’ve wanted a holiday.”

Doyle walked on, his face expressionless. “That’s two weeks without pay, Bodie. Rather cuts down the opportunities for a jaunt to the Bahamas.”

Bodie grinned. “Yeah, I see your point. And I don’t suppose you’ll be able to ask for your rise any time soon, considering the old man’s temperament at the moment.”

His partner stopped suddenly and faced him. “He was right, you know. We did make a mess of it.”

Bodie shrugged uncaringly. “What of it? No real harm. No one what really cares about Sheen. It’s all political bollocks. A regular tempest in a teapot that’ll blow over in a day.”

“Will it?” The green eyes were earnest. “Will it, Bodie?”

“Ah, if you’re talkin’ about Cowley, forget it. He just likes to chew on us from time to time to keep his teeth sharp. He’ll get over it. He thinks he raised us from pups and wants to make sure we know he’s still got the leash.”

Doyle shook his head and continued walking. The taller man tailed behind him in silence for a while until Doyle swung around on him furiously.

“Stop following me.”

Bodie took an involuntary step back. “Ray . . .”

“I want to be alone for a bit, is that okay with you?”

“No, actually, it’s not.” He was suddenly, unaccountable angry. “And I’m not okay with you acting like a wounded bird.”

The look Doyle gave him was lethal. “I hate you sometimes.”

“Right back at ya!”

Doyle walked on and Bodie let him go.

A half hour later, Bodie was in his flat, holding a malt whisky that he didn’t really want. What he wanted was Ray—Ray as he was a week ago, not the bitter stranger he’d been with the past few days. He tried to blame it on Ann Holly, but he knew that didn’t wash. Ann had hurt him, yes, but she hadn’t changed him. Only an ex-mercenary throwing off the ties of civilization had been able to accomplish that.

Bodie gripped the glass tighter and took a quick swig, letting the alcohol burn his throat. _Why did I have to push my dirty past off on him? But I thought we could get over it. I thought I had him where I wanted him. Yeah, some puppet, Billy, me boy. If there are any strings attached to Ray Doyle, they don’t lead to you anymore._

He gingerly touched the bruise on his forehead from the scrap with Sheen. The Mick had been a big man, certainly larger than himself, and easily a half-head taller than Doyle and twice as wide. He’d been ready for them, too, when they kicked down his door like a couple of boy scout stormtroopers, with cricket bat in his hand and murder in his eye. He’d charged them like they’d been holding darts instead of handguns. He’d put Bodie down with the second swing, then Doyle had leapt into the fray, the neighbour and Sheen’s telephone friend had shown up, and the brawl was on.

One thing you had to give the Irish, they don’t give up easy. Being half-Irish himself, Bodie appreciated the fact.

He smiled, remembering Doyle hanging on to Sheen’s brawny body, looking like a terrier worrying an ox. _But he brought him down, did old Ray. And cracked the behemoth’s ribcage with a couple of those fancy kicks of his. We make a hell of a team . . ._ He broke off the thought and drained the glass angrily. _Damn you, Ray. What are you thinking of now?_

He jumped as the phone rang. He cursed as he reached for it, wondering if it was one of the birds he met at the pub a few days ago. But it wasn’t.

“Bodie?”

He straightened. “Yeah, mate. Didn’t expect to hear from you. Thought you were playing Garbo.” _Oh great job. Irritate him straight off._

“Sod it, Bodie. I’m serious.”

“You’re too damn serious, if you ask me, mate.” Bodie gritted his teeth; he hadn’t realized there was this much resentment bottled up in him. He had to cool it off or they wouldn’t get anywhere. “What is it, Ray?”

A pause. “I want you to meet me somewhere.”

“Sure. When?”

“In the morning.”

“Why not tonight? I could be at your place . . .”

“No.” Doyle’s voice was hard. “Not here. And not tonight. You have a pencil?”

Bodie dutifully copied the directions, becoming more puzzled. “What’s this all about?”

“Don’t worry, Bodie. It’s just a game.” There was a quiet click and the line went dead.

* * *

The drive through the country did little to quiet Bodie’s nerves. He didn’t know what to expect at the end of this journey and it worried him more the closer he came.

His thoughts kept drifting back to that first night when he had hurt Ray and the man had sworn to kill him for it. It had seemed logical at the time, inevitable—an occasional by-product of The Game—especially when one contestant hadn’t known the rules at the start. He’d seen it happen in Africa and had accepted it as part of the consequences he was playing with when he took Doyle. It wasn’t until later that he achieved insight into something larger, when the slow, sensual lovemaking had swept the situation far beyond the realm of The Game. He wasn’t sure exactly what it did make it, but he had hoped that Doyle had felt the difference, too.

Now, as he took the last turn down an overgrown lane, it didn’t seem very likely. It looked like time to deal with the consequences. Fair enough.

He pulled up in front of the cottage and got out warily. Doyle’s car was parked near what looked to be a small stable, but there was no sign of him. The property was a little shabby and disused, but seemed in fairly good repair for all that.

“Ray?” he called out hopefully.

The stable door creaked and Bodie spun around.

“I’m here, Bodie. Come in.”

Bodie glanced around uncertainly. “Quite a twee spot. Miles from anywhere, innit?”

“Not really. Just seems that way for the trees. There’s a house around that copse and a village about a half a kilometre down the lane.”

The taller man closed the car door and moved toward the barn. “How’d you find this place?”

“Belongs to me cousin’s husband. They used it for a holiday cottage until his company transferred him to Queensland. Been trying to sell it for six months, but he’s set his price too high.”

“Doesn’t seem like your sort of place at all, mate. I thought you were a city boy.”

“Well, it’s not Angola, but I suppose it’ll do.”

Bodie stopped. “Ray, I didn’t come here to fight you.”

Doyle’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I didn’t go to your flat the other night to be raped either, but I don’t think you’ve got much more choice now than I did then.”

Bodie’s mouth felt dry and something inside him was in pain, a tiny vise that closed on his heart. “I’ve a choice. I don’t want to fight you. What happened then . . . happened. I can’t change it now . . . not sure I would even. It got me more than I bargained for with you. That’s what I’m afraid of losing.”

“Not afraid of losing your ‘boy’?” Doyle sneered. “I’m not drunk now, mate. Afraid to try it on for size?”

The vise closed a bit tighter. Bodie rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Don’t do this, Ray. It’s so bloody stupid. I’m sorry for what happened, but this is not going to make it right. I’m not going to go for it.” He lifted the latch on the car door but froze when he saw the gun.

“Get in the stable, Bodie.”

He laughed in sheer disbelief. “You’re bloomin’ mad, that’s what you are.” The gun didn’t waver. “You’d never shoot me, Ray.”

There was a hard little smile on Doyle’s mouth. “Kill you? Probably not. But kneecapping you might cramp your style. Do you really want to find out?”

The car door slammed again, and Bodie strode forward. “All right, you bought this, you bastard; you’ll pay for it, too.”

“That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

Once they were both inside, Doyle pulled the doors together and set down the bar to hold them shut. It was dim in the stable with the windows and doors closed, but thin streams of dusty morning sunlight leaked through the cracks in the sideboards; one splashed across Doyle’s face as he turned around, lighting up the green eyes into something iridescent. There was a smell of stale hay and the sound of doves in the rafters.

Bodie felt helpless and furious. Ray was forcing this, and he would get it—in spades. Bodie would fight to win; it wasn’t in his nature to do otherwise. Yet, if he won, he would doubtless lose Ray forever. The utter uselessness of it infuriated him.

“You’re a right nutter, you know that?” he snarled.

Doyle laughed. “And I suppose you’re not? Why do you think Cowley teamed us? Put the loonies in sets of two.” Doyle looked down at the gun. “I don’t suppose weapons were part of your friggin’ Game, were they? Takes the challenge out.” He clicked on the safety and tossed it into a corner pile of straw.

“You really want to do this, don’t you?” Bodie asked quietly, removing his own gun and jacket and putting them aside. “You have to prove something to yourself.”

“Maybe just prove it to you.”

“There’s nothing to prove. Ray—” He broke off, hesitated, throat choking off what he wanted so badly to say. “Before this starts, you have to know—” Again he faltered. _Know what? That I’m madly in love with him? What rot. He’d spit in my eye. It sounds silly just thinking it. How can I put into words what I feel when I don’t even know what the hell to call it?_

“What?”

Bodie shook his head. “Forget it.”

“Okay,” Doyle said pleasantly, and kicked Bodie neatly on the side of the head. He went down swiftly but caught Ray’s foot and jerked him down with him. There was a quick scramble for positions, and Doyle broke away before Bodie could get a hold on him.

They both stood, circling around each other cautiously, knowing each other too well to do otherwise. Bodie knew Doyle was swifter, and his free-form savate fighting had an advantage in that quickness. But Doyle knew his partner had the greater strength and endurance. He also had weight and reach over Doyle. They both looked patiently for openings, until Doyle found one. So concerned with Doyle’s kicks, Bodie underestimated his right cross. The larger man went down, mouth bleeding.

A second later, faster than Doyle anticipated, Bodie was up and charging bull-like at his opponent. They went down in a tangle of fists and elbows, Bodie on top, using his weight to force the smaller man down. For several moments they struggled muscle to muscle, straining against the other’s body, fighting for the upper hand. Doyle managed to lever his leg into place between them and flipped Bodie back across the floor.

They stood again, this time breathing heavily, the emotional strain wearing them down as much as the physical.

Bodie wiped the blood from his mouth, wincing at the sharp jab of pain. Eyes burning with fury, he jibed Doyle, “What’s the matter, boy? Had enough?”

Doyle answered with a kick to his stomach that connected soundly enough to rob him of breath, but also gave him a hold on the other man’s ankle, and through the haze of agony he found the strength to jerk up on it, and Doyle landed, hard, on his back. Bodie was in no shape to follow up his advantage; he slipped to his knees, doubled over and gasping for air. Before he could recover, the other man was on him again, and this time they rolled over and over the barn floor, continually overbalancing the other and trying to stay on top. They tumbled in this strange and violent ballet, coated with straw and dirt, sweating and groaning with effort, until they were halted by the wall. Doyle had the advantage of ending up on top, and he pressed it ruthlessly, pinning Bodie against the boards, twisting his forearm against the bigger man’s windpipe, cutting off his air even more.

“Choke, you son of a bitch,” Doyle growled.

Unable to breathe, his strength draining, for Bodie the world spiralled down to those blazing green eyes and that snarling mouth so close to his own. _So I’m losing_ , he thought with a strange calmness, just a level below the animal panic for air. _Perhaps that’s best after all. Perhaps he’ll kill me as he promised. I think I could bear that better than I can bear his hate._ But right on the heels of that came the instinct for survival, a new rush of adrenaline, the refusal to let go.

As the struggle renewed and he managed to roll Doyle from him, something transformed. Bodie pressed the fight, somehow sensing the change, almost smelling it on Doyle; a weakening that was as much of spirit as of the flesh. The tiger in Bodie delighted in the surrender, cock hardened rapidly at the heady rush of triumph through his blood, the beautiful pagan dominance of victory as he finally pinned Doyle’s arms over his head.

Doyle’s eyes were tightly closed, lashes wet on his cheeks, his mouth open panting for breath. Bodie lay heavily upon him, gripping the thin wrists, bruising, letting exhaustion claim him for a second.

There seemed no fight left in Doyle. The green eyes opened at last, looking straight into Bodie’s heart, and the vise loosened its hurting hold.

“Ray . . .” Bodie whispered, the tiger falling away, and something else being reborn. It was an emotion strange to him, but incredibly strong and sweet. “Ray, I . . .”

“You won,” Doyle broke in. “What are you waiting for?”

Bodie stared down at him, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the stomach again. The vise resumed its treacherous squeeze on his heart, ruthlessly strangling off the gentler feelings. He could clearly feel Doyle’s cock pulsing eagerly against his hip, hard as iron.

“You bastard,’ Bodie said flatly, refusing to let the pain reach his voice. “You sorry bastard. You want me to do it, don’t you?”

The green eyes wavered and Bodie slapped him.

“I ought to break the other fuckin’ cheekbone!”

Doyle’s eyes were wider now, fear replacing apprehension. “What are you talking about?” he asked weakly.

“Damn you to hell! You’re not going to use me like this.”

“Bodie—what?” There was true puzzlement there, and complete confusion.

“My god,” Bodie said in disgust, “you don’t even know, do you? You’ve got it buried so deep you can’t dare let yourself realize.”

“Realize _what_?” Doyle said hoarsely, but Bodie saw the shutters go up in the wide eyes and knew he would never listen to the truth, never accept it.

“All right, I’ll show you, you stupid sod!” Bodie ripped savagely at Doyle’s clothing, tearing it from him brutally. He undressed himself as rapidly, all tenderness choked off by disappointment. For one precious second there, lying over Ray, bodies matching breath for gulping breath, he’d thought he’d found it. That intangible, unspeakable sweetness, the illusive something he’d been unable to name aloud.

 _‘The love that dare not speak its name’_ , Bodie thought hatefully, disgusted at himself and disgusted at Doyle for almost making him fall into that ridiculous trap. _Fuck it! And fuck him for putting me through this! It’s all rubbish; it all comes down to a good, hard rut. Well, Raymond, my boy, that’s just what you’ll get. Congratulations, you won The Game after all, and didn’t even know it._

Despite his fury, aching sadness and a lingering memory of something sweeter, kept him from being as violent in his penetration as he meant to be. It hurt Doyle anyway, and he cried out once, but the pain was left behind in the ashes of Bodie’s anger. The act was hard and fast, with much taking and little giving on either side, but no matter how much they thought they wanted to, it was impossible to return to their brutal beginning. There was passion and pain and blood—but there was also a boundless, frightening pleasure that shook them both like summer aspens in a squall.

At the end when everything was nothing and everything, fused together in a sexual peak, they called out each other’s names.

* * *

The loving took longer to recover from than had the fight. Unmarked time passed before Bodie was able to roll away. He knew he didn’t dare speak, couldn’t articulate what had just passed between them. That was for Doyle to say. Like it always ways.

Ray lay there, arm over his face, curls falling over his arm in a straw-tangled jumble, listening to the rustle of clothing as Bodie dressed. But when he heard the latch move on the stable door, he stood up.

“Bodie . . . wait . . .”

The other man stood at the door, refusing to turn and let Doyle see the burn of tears in his eyes, refusing to acknowledge them himself. “For what?” he choked out through the constriction in his throat.

“What you said . . . that I . . . wanted it . . .”

Now Bodie turned, needing to see Ray’s face, to read his eyes.

“Maybe you were right,” Doyle said simply.

“You can admit that?”

Doyle’s head dropped. “I suppose it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? But I didn’t know . . . at least, I didn’t think . . .” He broke off shakily. “I’m sorry.”

“So now you know,” Bodie said, more harshly than he intended, “and you had to use me to find out. Well, it’s done now.”

“Talk to me. Tell me what it means.”

Bodie looked baffled, then amused. “You think I know?”

Doyle shrugged. “You’re bound to know more than me.”

“Oh no, mate. I know about the game; I know what it means to win or lose. But I told you straight off that this had nothing to do with that. I’m as lost as you.”

The door swung softly shut behind him.

Doyle lay there, stunned by what had happened, unable to believe that Bodie would leave him like this, but he heard the car roar to life and the spatter of gravel as it tore out the lane.

His fist dug into the straw as he felt sobs build in his chest. “Damn you,” he whispered, unsure if he was cursing Bodie or himself. He hurt all over, and in places he didn’t like to think about. And Bodie’s words rang in his head like some infernal round, ‘ _You want me to do it. You want me to do it._ ’

All right, so he had wanted it, had wanted Bodie to fuck him. Maybe he could have won the sick Game he’d forced his partner to play. If Bodie was right, and it had all been an excuse to lose, and it certainly looked that way right now, where did that leave him? What did it mean? For all Bodie’s knowledge of his motivations, unconscious or not, he had no answer for that.

“Thanks, mate,” Ray mumbled resentfully. “You’ve been a great help. You’re one lousy guru.”

But part of him knew he was being unfair, wondering if Bodie’s coldness in walking out on him was really that. He remembered thinking not so many days ago (or a century ago) that Bodie wasn’t quite as in control as he liked to let on. That he was just as trapped and confused, but less able to admit it. Bodie, the man of iron and ice, was scared, too. It gave Doyle a vicious satisfaction to believe that.

He stood shakily, found his clothes and began dressing. His shirt was torn and the button was off his jeans, but he was decently covered when he went to his car. He sat behind the wheel for a long time with the motor running, unable to decide where he wanted to go. There was, of course, the urge to run after Bodie, but just as strong was the contrasting need to run away from him. He couldn’t remember feeling quite so confused. Once again, he was sure the dichotomy would kill him.

Finally, when he pulled out of the lane, his destination was quite practical—his flat. He needed time to think before he confronted his partner. Time to figure out exactly what all this meant and where it was leading them.

* * *

Bodie was driving his car with self-conscious precision. He knew he was shaking inside, but he didn’t allow it to reach his hands. A kilometre from London, he suddenly reversed his course and headed away from the city, away from the pressure building inside him.

At that moment he truly hated Doyle for wrecking the careful, cool structure of his life. Perhaps it was time to build again somewhere else.

* * *

Doyle dropped the phone back into the cradle. Ten days and no sign of Bodie.

 _He’s running again_ , Doyle thought resentfully. _Every bloody time it gets too hot for him, he skips out. He ran out on his family, the Merchants, even the fuckin’ mercenaries. What makes you surprised he didn’t stick for you?_

But behind his irritation burned a growing joy. Bodie had to be pretty damn shaken by the whole thing or he wouldn’t have bothered to run. And if that was the case, it mattered to him—a whole hell of a lot.

Doyle smiled at the thought, strangely untroubled by the idea Bodie might never come back. Confident, smug, unbearable Bodie had told him flat out that Doyle could leave as far and often as he wished, but he would come back to him—always come back. _Well, it pulls both ways, old son_ , he thought with satisfaction. _You’re squeezin’ your own balls on this one, as much as mine._

He tucked in his shirttail, grabbed his jacket, and headed out the door. He hadn’t been alone these last few nights and didn’t intend to be if he could help it. He’d had a different bird every night, which far exceeded his usual luck. At first he’d been uncomfortable with it, figuring he was trying to reassert his masculine image by screwing all the skirts in London, but he soon forgot about that and simply enjoyed. He’d seldom felt so overcharged with sexuality, alive with it, practically insatiable. He didn’t realize that was partly the reason for his nightly successes with the ladies, as they were drawn to his animal incandescence. It wouldn’t have taken much more for his curls to have crackled with the electricity of it.

He would never have admitted that Bodie was directly responsible for this sudden charge, or even cared a hell of a lot if he had. He felt good, knew he looked good despite his bruises (or perhaps because of them), and used it for all it was worth.

And he waited patiently for Bodie to come back.

For some odd reason, his worries had faded as quickly as the bruises Bodie had inflicted on him. A hot shower and a peaceful night’s sleep had left him sparked with this crazy energy that ignored his stiffened muscles and minor aches. The tension and uncertainty of the last week had vanished. He was still determined to face his partner, impatient to do so, in fact, but that particular aspect of their impasse no longer weighed on his mind.

It wasn’t until the evening before their refresher course was to begin that Bodie called.

“So you’re back, then,” Doyle answered cheerfully. “Have a nice holiday, did you?”

The grunt in answer was particularly noncommittal. “And you?”

Doyle grinned. “You asking how I got on?”

Silence.

From amusement, Doyle switched directly to irritation. “What’d you think, mate? That you managed to put me off birds? I may’ve let you screw me, but it didn’t change me to Quentin Crisp.”

“So now you’ve _let_ me, eh? You’re singing a different tune, ain’t you?”

Doyle gripped the receiver tightly. “Why’d you ring me, Bodie? You want to fight, come over so I can kick your bloody teeth in.”

There was a throaty chuckle. “That’s my Ray, belligerent to the last. ‘Night, Sunshine. See you at the grounds.”

Doyle slammed the phone down, cursing. What the hell happened? A three minute conversation and somehow Bodie managed to take control again.

* * *

During the next couple days of intensive training and testing, Doyle determinedly kept his temper banked. It wasn’t too difficult, since they were only together intermittently, and even then, Smithers and Macklin kept them too busy to think of much else than survival. But if Doyle was cool, Bodie more than matched him.

 _The man could give lessons to a friggin’ penguin_ , Doyle thought resentfully as they gathered up their gear at the end of the third day. On impulse, he decided it was time to see if he could crack that ice.

“Hey, Bodie, what’s doing tonight?”

His partner raked him with a casual glance, then continued cleaning his gun. “Got a date.”

“Yeah, so do I. Want to double?”

The glacial blue eyes slid over him appraisingly without a hint of thaw. The lips curved in the usual superior smile. “Not such a good idea, do you think?”

“Why not?”

“Well, mate, if we get in a foursome, how you going to explain to the bird when you go for me and ignore her? Terrible for the poor girl’s ego.”

Doyle was struck totally dumb. He had seen Bodie be sarcastic, vindictive and even cruel before, but nothing like this. It was beyond belief.

Bodie shoved in the clip and holstered his weapon. “Well, what are you waiting for, mate? Aren’t you going to try to lay me out? Isn’t that the famous Doyle style? Wade in and think later? Never knew you’d learned to count to ten.”

“Why did you say that, Bodie?”

Bodie shrugged. “It was getting a dash boring. Figured it’d get a rise out of you.”

Doyle let out his breath slowly, realizing Bodie had almost won another round, almost got him to lose his temper. It was a good trick and it would have worked if Doyle hadn’t been so stunned. “No, I won’t fight with you.”

“Pity. The last time was a blast.”

Doyle flushed. “Go on, say what you want. I’m not taking the bait.”

“Okay.” Bodie turned to leave.

“Wait. Can’t we talk?”

“Sure. What about?”

This time Doyle almost lost it. The sheer frustration was worse than the anger. “Someplace else, okay? Not here.”

Again, Bodie shrugged. “Sure, you can give me a lift home. I rode with Murphy this morning.”

Doyle kept his attention on his driving; Bodie studied the landscape. Before Doyle could think of anything to say or anyway to say it, Bodie broke the silence. “You still want to go on that double tonight?”

Doyle glanced at him, startled. “Ah . . . sure. But what . . .”

“Meet you at the Red Lion about eight, right?”

“All right.”

They were both silent for the remainder of the trip.

* * *

It was a lovely evening. The girls took to each other right off, and the atmosphere was comfortable and jolly. They seemed a little perplexed when Doyle suggested they split up at the end of the night. Bodie just smiled.

For the first time in a while, Doyle left his date at her flat and went home alone. He felt strangely out of kilter, like they’d flipped back a page of history.

Until he reached his door and found Bodie waiting for him.

He unlocked the gate. “Where’s yours?”

“Home in bed, I imagine. Same as your bird. Are you going to ask me in?”

“You’re already in,” Doyle pointed out. “Want a drink?”

“Yeah,” Bodie helped himself and poured one for his partner as well.

Doyle took it without comment. He settled down on the sofa, watching Bodie prowl restlessly.

“Why’d you come here, Bodie?”

“You wanted to talk, didn’t you?”

Doyle took a sip of the liquor before looking up. “You’re going to tell me you’re quitting CI5.”

Bodie’s head jerked around.

“Well, aren’t you?”

“It’s crossed my mind, yes. I haven’t decided.”

“You might as well, you know. That’s your style, isn’t it? Cut your losses and run? Make a regular habit of it, don’t you?”

Bodie’s jaw set but he didn’t answer.

“And there’s not much left to lose this time, is there?” Doyle continued. “Cowley will never team us again—not the way we are now. You know that as well as I do.”

The whisky disappeared down Bodie’s throat in a gulp. “We did okay tonight. No difference.”

Doyle laughed. “Not the same. We both ended up here. But, yeah, we can fool a couple of strange girls into thinking we’re great chums, but we’re not going to fool Cowley.”

Bodie admitted, “I suppose not.”

“So it’s the end, then?”

“Looks that way.”

“Well, we gave it a try, didn’t we?” Their eyes met, held.

“Damn it, Ray, I . . .”

“Go on, say it,” Doyle demanded.

Bodie shook his head. “I’d best go.”

Doyle felt his temper rise. “Yeah, run, mate. Keep running. Maybe you’ll be lucky,and it’ll never catch you.”

“What?”

“What you keep trying to say and then back away from.”

“You’re daft.”

“Probably. But I’m not scared now, and you are.”

Bodie slammed the glass down on the table. “I’m leaving.”

“Good night, mate.”

Bodie hesitated, then stormed out of the flat with a curse.

Doyle sipped his drink and smiled. This round had been all his. And seeing Bodie so rattled was sheer bliss.

* * *

Bodie _was_ rattled, and confused, and angry, and a dozen other unpleasant things. Twice he picked up the telephone to ring an acquaintance who had put him onto a tip that the American CIA were hiring pros for a drop of covert action in El Salvador. Right up his alley, actually. Some guerrilla fighting, not too heavy, good equipment, good pay, pretty senoritas . . . But his Spanish was rotten and what he had was Castilian, rather than the native lingo. Then again, his Portuguese had been non-existent when he went to Angola, too.

But twice he put down the phone.

If only Doyle hadn’t seemed so blasted eager for him to cut out. He was a damn sight too accommodating. Bodie had expected an argument, perhaps heated enough to start another brawl—part of him warmed at the thought. He stood and began pacing again, like a caged tiger. Unfortunately, the door to his particular cage was wide open; it was going back to the jungle that was harder than he had ever imagined it would be. And Doyle, damn his green eyes, seemed to want him to go. Was pushing him, in fact. The partnership was over, ended, finis. Wasn’t that what Doyle said? But was it what he wanted?

 _Since when have I paid any mind to what Ray Doyle wants?_ he thought petulantly. _What do I care what the little bugger thinks? It’s what I want that counts._ But right on the heels of that, _Christ, I want Ray Doyle._

Tired of running this maddening squirrel-cage, he went to bed, masturbated furiously, and fell asleep

* * *

The phone woke him in the middle of a dream where Ray was chasing him through a jungle; he kept trying to stop and go back, but Ray pushed him on, lobbing grenades at him and shouting that it was time to play The Game.

He woke, shaking and sweating, with the ominous feeling one gets from a phone ringing in the middle of the night. He grabbed up the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Cowley. I’m afraid I may have some bad news, 3.7. Do you have any idea where 4.5 might be?”

Bodie sat up in bed, glancing at the clock. “He was at his flat a few hours ago. Why, sir? What’s wrong?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Is there any chance he left there?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. What’s this all about, sir?”

Another silence. “I think you’d better get over to Doyle’s flat immediately; I’m on my way there now. It’s on fire. Looks like arson.”

Bodie closed his eyes.

“Bodie, did you hear me?”

“He hasn’t called in?”

“No.”

Bodie hung up the phone without saying anything else.

* * *

Cowley pulled up in front of the burning building two minutes after Bodie. The firemen were having little luck controlling the flames, and the entire section looked on the verge of collapse.

“His car’s here?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t mean he was inside, 3.7.”

Bodie’s eyes were desolate. “And if he was?”

The answer to that was obvious.

A fireman came over to press them back. “Better move away, gov’ner. She’s not going to stand much longer; mi’ be some glass flyin’.”

Bodie grabbed the fireman’s arm. “Can you tell if anyone was inside?”

The man shook his head. “If they was, they were gonners by the time we got ‘ere. She was too hot to get near even then.”

“Incendiary bombs?” Cowley asked.

“Aye, looks that way. No other reason for it to go up like that. I’d stake my pension this one was set—an’ set by a pro.”

Bodie was leaning against his car, head lowered. Cowley moved to him and stood there uncomfortably, uncertain of what to say to this silent anguish. “Listen, man, we don’t know for sure he was there,” he repeated hopefully. “Perhaps he’s out with some girl right now, an’ knows nothing of this.”

“No,” Bodie said simply.

The slump of the body, the slight quiver of the shoulders spoke of defeat and maybe even shock. It was totally unlike Bodie. Cowley shook his arm roughly. “Don’t bury Doyle, yet, man. Damn it, we don’t know anything for certain!”

Bodie jerked away, as if unable to bear the touch. “I should have been here. I shouldn’t have left him!”

Cowley stared at the wildness in Bodie’s eyes and knew he had never seen the man so close to the edge. “Save your guilt and grieving for later, 3.7. If this was arson, we’ve a job to do. Get your mind on that.”

Bodie looked at him blindly. “What? But Ray . . .”

“If he’s dead, he’s dead,” Cowley said harshly. “The best way to help is to find who’s responsible.”

“Responsible . . .” For the first time Bodie came out of his daze long enough to realize that someone had done this, had set fire to the building, had burned Ray Doyle to death. His teeth set. “Who?”

“That’s what we must find out. Snap out of it, 3.7, and think. There’s nothing to be done here until the fire cools enough to gather evidence. Whether Doyle was in there or not, it was attempted murder and arson.” He paused. “I can think of one suspect right now. Daniel Sheen.”

“Sheen? He’s in jail.”

“No,” Cowley replied reluctantly. “He was released on bail the day after you and Doyle were put on suspension. Dropped out of sight almost immediately upon release from the hospital jail.”

Bodie was stunned. “But it was a parole violation as well as the drug charge! How did he get bail?”

Cowley’s eyes met Bodie’s squarely. “The circumstances of his arrest were hardly perfect, if you’ll recall. There was the charge of police brutality and harassment to consider. It was simple enough for his barrister. Parole or not, he got bail on the basis of that.”

“All right, but why him? Ray’s made other enemies.”

“You heard the fireman; this was a professional job. The place went up like a torch. That means incendiary devices, and that was Sheen’s specialty, his first love, in fact. His first spell in jail was for arson, according to his arrest sheet.”

“Bloody hell!” Bodie exploded. “And they let the pillock free!”

“He’d been clean for years; you know that as well as I. He’s just a possibility, 3.7. He certainly had a grudge to settle.”

“Yeah, I suppose he did.”

“Well, get on it. You know some of his contacts.”

Bodie looked back at the fire. “I can’t . . . until I know . . .”

“You can and you will!” Cowley roared. “You can’t do any good here. And for God’s sake, watch out for yourself—if it is Sheen, you’re obviously next in his sights.”

Still Bodie hesitated. More kindly, Cowley added, “I’ll let you know the moment I do.” Bodie swallowed and nodded. Cowley watched him leave, wondering if he’d lost one agent or two.

* * *

Bodie drove through the streets of London in a fog thicker than any for which the city was famous. He was numb inside, running on automatic, checking sources, searching for leads, but emotionally blind. He hardly heard the words that were spoken to him, although some part of his brain must have acted on the information, for he kept going and seemed to have a vague purpose in his direction.

The entire force of his being was focused on the R/T on the seat beside him. But when the call finally came, he nearly couldn’t answer it. He pulled the car over to the curb and stared at the box, paralyzed at the thought of what Cowley might tell him.

He picked it up. “3.7 here.” His voice was calm and even and he spared a second to be amazed by that.

“Cowley. They found no bodies in Doyle’s flat. He wasn’t there.” When he received no answer, Cowley spoke again. “Did you read, 3.7? Doyle wasn’t in the flat.”

Bodie swallowed the impossible lump in his throat, “Yes, I heard you. What did they find?”

“It was definitely arson . . . and murder. The man in the neighbouring flat didn’t get out in time.”

“Incendiary bombs?”

“As we suspected, yes, At least two of them. Through the windows probably. Have you picked up any leads on Sheen?”

“I’m tracking down a mate of his that might know something.”

“IRA man?”

“I doubt it. Just a drinkin’ chum. More likely to spout off a lot of rot rather than do anything. I expect he’ll have heard something, though.”

“Well, keep on it. I’ll let you know if I hear from 4.5.”

Bodie waited a second then clicked the button back on. “Sir, he would have reported by now if there wasn’t trouble, don’t you think? They could have nabbed him before they torched the place.”

A pause from the other side. “The thought has occurred to me. But he wasn’t in that flat, Bodie. If they’d wanted him dead, he would have been. Right now we need to find out who this mysterious ‘they’ are. Get to work, 3.7.”

“Yes, sir. 3.7 out” Bodie sat there for several moments, unmoving. He was quite pleased at how steady his voice had been, how he had kept his composure. Of course he had. There was a very good chance Ray Doyle was alive—at least it was certain he hadn’t died in the fire.

Then he noticed that he had gripped the R/T so tightly that the case was bent.

* * *

He was unsurprised to locate Paddy Callahan in a pub, and even less surprised to find he’d had a snootful already, even if it was barely ten in the morning. But, for a change, the Irish whisky seemed to do little to ease the man’s tongue.

Beyond even an attempt at patience, Bodie grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out into the alleyway. He slammed his back against the wall.

“I’ll ask you one more time, you drunken sod, before I take your bloody head off! Where’s Daniel Sheen?”

“Get ya hands off me, you big baboon! I don’t know nothin’. I don’t! An’ I wouldn’t tell ya, if’n I did, after ya set Danny up like ya did!”

“Set him up, did we? Was that his story?”

“T’is the truth! Danny was clean!”

“A bag of cocaine says different, Paddy.”

The Irishman struggled to get away, but Bodie held him back easily. “Where’s he at, Paddy?”

“So’s you an’ your pal and all o’ CI5 behind ya can work ‘im over again?”

“He was feelin’ frisky enough to skip out on his bail. Besides, you should be worryin’ about your own health at present. It’s due to take a bad turn if I don’t get some answers.”

The man struggled for air as Bodie tightened his hold on his throat. “All I know . . . is he ain’t . . . goin’ back to jail. That he planned to skip.”

“That’s old news; he’s been missin’ for a week.” Bodie let up on the pressure. “When did you see him?”

“Couple of days ago.” Callahan rubbed his throat resentfully. “But I don’t know where he is now. He’s got help, though, that much I do know.”

“What kind of help? Who’s helping him?”

“Who do you think? Friends o’ his, from the old days. They’d been tryin’ to get Danny to start the old business again, but he wouldn’t have none of it. Too bloody scared o’ going back to the slammer. He told me they’d get ‘im for sure if he went back in.”

“Who would get him?”

Paddy shrugged. “Some toughs he crossed inside. He squealed on ‘em, an’ it helped ‘im get his parole. But if he goes back, ‘e’ll be dead meat within a week. That’s why he was so cautious like. You must’ve set ‘im up. He’d never ‘ave risked it—”

Bodie cut him off. “So he went back to his IRA friends, has he? How are they getting him out of the country?”

“I don’t know.”

Bodie slammed him against the wall again and pressed his forearm across the Irishman’s windpipe. “I think you do know, Paddy. And I think I’m going to keep on squeezing until it spills out of you like toothpaste. Why’d he go after my partner? Talk, damn you!”

“Okay.” Paddy gasped for breath when Bodie finally loosened his hold.

“Well?”

“I don’t know anything about your partner . . . except that Danny swore he would get you both for settin’ him up. He’s not a good man to cross, is Danny.”

“Neither am I,” Bodie snarled. “Who’s helping him? Where would he go?”

“I don’t know, I tell you! That’s the truth; I swear on my mither’s life! He wouldn’t tell me nothing like that, would ‘e? Knowin’ you and your pals might come down on me like this.”

“Then tell me who would know?”

If Callahan thought to clam up on that, the insane glitter in the other man’s eyes made him reconsider. “Sarah Denny.”

“That’s his girl? Where do I find her?” He waited a moment and when the answer didn’t come quick enough, he shook the man violently. “You’d better talk, you drunken sod!”

“A warehouse! By the river . . . She works in an office there. Melbourne Shipping Company.”

Bodie tossed him away scornfully. “Never even think about give anyone the head’s up. If you do, I will kill you.”

Observe the light in Bodie’s eyes, Callahan believe him.

* * *

Five minutes later, as he slid into his car and reached for the ignition, he noted another car turning the corner and pulling up to the curb a block behind him. As he moved out into the traffic, his rear mirror showed the new shadow trailing at a discreet distance. He whipped around a couple of corners until he was more certain of its purpose.

“Bloody hell!”

He grabbed up the R/T, instinct telling him exactly what the source was. “3.7 to Alpha. Come in, Alpha.”

The R/T crackled. “This is Central, 3.7. Alpha is not available at present. Do you have anything to report? Out.”

Bodie clutched the steering wheel tighter. “You tell that bloody bastard to get his tail off me. I don’t need a fuckin’ nursemaid!”

“Say again, 3.7. We did not copy. Out.”

“You copied all right. If you can’t put me through to Cowley now, then you make sure he gets that message, understand?”

“One moment, 3.7.” There was a long pause. “3.7? I just received orders for you to return to HQ.”

“Why? Is there information on Doyle?”

“Negative. 4.5 has not reported in. But there has been a time-detonation device located at your address. Alpha’s orders are for you to report back to base immediately. Do you read?”

Bodie roared and clicked off the R/T. “No, this time I don’t fuckin’ copy.”

* * *

With his hands tied behind him, Bodie could do little to slow his descent down the cellar stairs, but turned his fall into a clumsy roll and, thanks to his Para training, managed to avoid break his neck at the bottom.

There was a chuckle from the top of the steps. “We’ll be sure to tell Sarah you were looking for her, chump. Have a wait down there; she’ll be back presently.”

The square of light disappeared as the trap door swung shut. Bodie groaned and tried to sit up, certain he must have broken at least a minor bone somewhere. His head was still spinning from the earlier blow he’d received when they’d caught him in the warehouse office, Sarah Denny’s place of employment.

There was at least five inches of water on the cellar floor, seeping in from the nearby Thames, and he could hear a damp trickle running down the walls. And he heard something else.

“Bodie?”

“Ray? Ray!” He tried to stand, almost overbalanced, then tried again and made it.

“Over here, mate. I was wonderin’ when you’d drop in.” A hoarse cough followed the words, and Bodie traced the sound across the floor, his eyes trying to adjust to the cellar’s darkness.

“You okay?”

“Peachy. Think I’ve pickin’ up a touch of ol’ Danny’s cold, though. Bit damp in here, innit”

Bodie knelt down beside him. “How long have you been down here?”

“Can’t very well read me watch with me hands cuffed behind me, can I? Too damn long, is all I know.”

“Did Sheen bring you straight here?”

“With a few diversionary side trips whenever he felt like bashin’ me again.”

Doyle was sitting with his back against the stone wall, his knees pulled up in front of him. To Bodie, he looked incredibly small and cold and defenceless. In frustration, Bodie jerked the ropes on his own wrists and felt them give a little.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“Well, I’ve felt better, if that’s what you mean. And a night in this cellar isn’t exactly a tea party either. There’s rats down here, you know. Nothing I hate more than rats. I got bit by one when I was a kid.” This time Bodie caught a slight quiver in the voice. “Don’t take it wrong, mate, but I’m relieve to ‘ave company.”

“Ah well,” Bodie replied lightly, “the darts match was called off, and I didn’t have anything better to do.”

“I don’t reckon Cowley knows we’re here, does he?”

Bodie hesitated. “I didn’t call him. I was following a lead, but I didn’t think it would pan out.”

“Terrific,” Doyle muttered. “How’d you find me?”

“I followed the nice, neat line of bread crumbs Danny boy left behind for me. I don’t know if that twat Callahan was in on it, or just a patsy, but either way–”

“Sheen wanted you, too.”

“Yeah. I’m beginning to suspect I’m not right for this job, after all. Then again, you were all ways the brains. Your girlfriend, Marge, was right when she said louts were everywhere.”

The racking cough took Doyle again, and he was gasping by the time he could control it. Bodie tugged on his own bonds in frustration, feeling them loosen just a bit more.

“You all right, mate?”

“No, I’m not bloody all right,” Doyle said hollowly before another wave of coughing hit him.

“Need to get you out of this water. Take it easy, mate. I think the rope is slipping a little.”

The spasm eased, and Doyle raised his head. “They didn’t tie your feet?”

“No, and I feel very slighted. Just because I trotted in here like an Easter lamb to slaughter doesn’t mean I’m not a very dangerous character, too, don’t you know.”

“Bodie, how could you’ve been so bloody stupid! You could’ve at least left word where you were heading, for Christ’s sake!”

“I couldn’t.” He paused. “The old man was ready to pull me off.”

“Whatd’ya mean, pull you off? Why?”

“Because he didn’t think I could handle it, damn him!”

Doyle was predictably acerbic. “Looks like he had a point, don’t it?”

“Not exactly. I found you, didn’t I?”

And inevitably scornful. “Oh yeah, terrific. I’m very impressed.”

“Don’t knock it, Sunshine. It’s part of a wonderfully complex strategy on my part.”

“Oh yes, I could tell right off. Loved the move where you let yourself be tied up and pitched down the steps. Very cunning. Cowley’s right; you’re slipping, Bodie.”

“That’s rich coming from you. Who’s the one got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Pardon me for not letting meself be roasted. Try havin’ a couple fire-bombs tossed through your front window and see if you don’t cheese it out the back.” The cough returned and Bodie’s defensiveness switched to concern.

“Not doin’ so good, are you, mate?” He kept turning his wrists against the ropes, feeling them give and then tighten again with the motion. “Ray?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Listen, I think the Cow had a tail on me. If so, there’s a chance he might’ve followed me here.”

“A chance?”

He sighed. “Well, I’m pretty sure I lost him.”

“Well, at least you’re good at something.”

“Christ, Ray, I couldn’t let him pull me off, could I? And Cowley would’ve stopped me this time. I’ve bucked his orders before.”

There was a silence, then, “Can you get free, Bodie?”

“I’m trying, Sunshine, I’m trying.”

“I’m cold.”

Bodie’s throat tightened. Ray Doyle would never have said such a thing in such a tone of voice if he wasn’t badly weakened. In the dim light, he could see the shivers run through the thin frame.

“Hold on, Ray. I’ll get us out of here somehow, I swear. Just hold on for a bit, okay?”

There was no answer. “Ray?”

“I hear you, Bodie.”

“Good boy.”

A quick laugh. “I thought I told you not to . . . call me boy.”

“I should call you a drowned rat right now, Angelfish. I’ve seldom seen a more pitiful sight. Can’t leave you for a minute, can I, eh? You take out an ad in the classifieds under trouble? I never seem to get a decent night’s sleep anymore, do I? Cowley calls me right in the middle of a lovely wet dream, tells me your flat is in blazes, expects me to run right out and throw a pail on it, I suppose.” He rambled on, working furiously at the ropes, feeling the chill damp of the cellar seep through his own wet clothes. Doyle had been exposed to it for at least twelve hours.

“Bodie,” Doyle interrupted softly, “it wasn’t your fault.”

Bodie bit his lip. “Ah, damn it all Ray, it is my fault. I shouldn’t have left . . . We’re supposed to watch each other’s backs, right?”

Doyle answered his partner’s guilt with a chuckle. “I think we were too busy watching each other’s arses, mate.”

The lump in Bodie’s throat gained weight. “Ah, Ray . . .” He swallowed. “Listen, mate, do you think you could work at these knots a bit if I get us turned round?”

There was silence again. “I’m sorry, Bodie. I don’t think I can. My hands are numb. I can’t feel my fingers at all. I can’t help you.”

“That’s all right, mate,” Bodie said hastily. “I’ve almost got it now. It’s looser; just give me another minute.”

Doyle began coughing again, and he started to slide over. Bodie braced him with his shoulder. “Don’t go falling asleep on me now. I can’t hold your nose up out of the water and do Houdini at the same time, y’know.”

“I . . . think I’m really sick, Bodie. I think I . . .”

“Nah, you’re one of those hypochondriacs, is what you are. Cowley’d never let you off a stakeout for a middlin’ little sniffle like this. Come on, Ray, hang on for a bit. We’ll make it.”

“Sure . . . Okay.”

It seemed to take forever for the rope to loosen enough to let his thumb free, but the slick blood helped. Five minutes later, he had it off and rubbed his wrists to regain the circulation. Doyle’s ankles were strapped together with metal strips from packing crates, and it took almost as long to free him as it had himself. There was nothing he could do about the handcuffs. He pulled off his jacket and tucked it around Doyle, before rapidly making an inspection of possible escape routes. As he had anticipated, there were none. The small windows would hardly have been big enough for Doyle to squirm out, even if they had not been covered with iron grilles. The metal was rusted, but certainly strong enough to keep them prisoner. The door at the top of the stairs was bolted from the outside, and the other door was held by a large chain and nearly new padlock.

Giving it up as a lost cause for the moment, he returned to Doyle. In the darkness of the cellar, the man’s pallor was even more apparent. His eyes were bright with fever as Bodie knelt beside him.

“No luck, mate?”

“Lots of luck, all bad. How are you doing, Ray?”

“My lungs feel like fire. I think the bastard cracked me ribs along with the rest. It’s not good.”

Bodie patted his shoulder awkwardly. “We’ll make it.”

“Wish there was some water,” Doyle croaked. “I’m dry as powder.”

“There’s plenty about.”

“This stuff’s filthy. You don’t expect . . .”

“No, I suppose not.” Bodie’s hand soothed him. “Though it’s not much worse than some I sucked up in Africa, eh.”

“If half the things you say you did in Africa were true, you could . . .” He broke off as coughs shook him.

Bodie clenched his teeth at the harsh, dry sound of it. He tucked the damp coat closer around him and held his shoulders until the seizure passed. “It’s all true, old son. I never lie; it makes your nose grow, you know. Here, you better now? Sit up a minute, while I find a better place for us.”

“How about a beach in Majorca?” Doyle wheezed.

“And you say I killed vaudeville?” Bodie rummaged through the cellar until he found some wood pallets. They were semi-rotten and wet, but with a few sheets of equally rotting plywood, it gave them a small platform out of the water. He moved to Doyle and tried to help him stand, but Doyle’s numbed legs wouldn’t hold. Bodie slipped his arm under the smaller man’s knees and around his shoulders and carried him to the pallets.

He leaned his back against the wall and pulled Doyle against his chest. “Now, is that better, Sunshine? I’m bound to be warmer than being propped against the blocks.”

It felt good to have Doyle in his arms, even if he was just as wet, and their position was only marginally better than it was ten minutes before. At least he could hold him now and have the illusion of protecting him. He massaged Doyle’s arms, trying to rub out some of the cramps and loss of circulation. His own body was throbbing and aching in various places from the tumble down the stairs and the whack on the side of his head, but it was easy to forget that, not so easy to ignore his friend’s obvious pain. Doyle felt very hot in his arms, and it worried him. The fever was rising, and the beating Doyle had taken had robbed him of most of his resistance to the long hours of exposure to the wet and cold. He could feel the life burning out of Doyle.

As the time ticked by, Bodie could get less and less response from his partner and what there was became disjointed and twisted by the fever.

“Bodie,” a panicked whisper.

“What?”

“Bodie!”

“Shhh. I’m here Ray. I’m right here.”

“Don’t let me sleep.”

“You can sleep; it’s okay. Rest now.”

Doyle twisted in his arms. “No! Don’t let me fall asleep. The rats . . .”

Bodie held him tighter. “I’ll keep them away, promise. It’s all right.”

“No . . . I hate them. I’m scared of them; did I tell you that? Bet I never told you that, did I?”

Bodie stroked the matted curls. “No, but it’s okay. They won’t bother two of us.”

“Shouldn’t have told you.”

“What?”

“Scared of rats . . . scared of anything . . . shouldn’t have told you that. You don’t like that . . . shouldn’t have said.”

“Shhh. It’s all right, Ray. It doesn’t matter. I’m scared of things, too. I’m always scared. I told you that once before.”

Bodie felt the curls move against his cheek as Doyle shook his head. “No . . . only scared of me. Scared of . . .” The rest was unintelligible.

“What, Sunshine? Tell me.”

“Tried to tell you. Had to figure it out myself. You wouldn’t help. Ran out on me, bastard. You’re a bastard, Bodie, you know that? Raped me . . . ran out on me . . .bloody bastard.”

“Yes, I know,” Bodie said quietly. His lips settled briefly in Doyle’s hair; he tasted sweat and brackish river water. “I know.”

“Bodie . . . you going to run out on me again? Are you?”

“No place to run, mate. It’s just you and me and the rats.”

A jagged chuckle that turned into another spell of coughing. “Yeah,” Doyle whispered finally. “You have to stick around this time, don’t you?” He moved restlessly in Bodie’s embrace, seeming to drop back into the light delirium. “God, Bodie, don’t let me sleep . . . Talk to me. They don’t like it when you talk. I talked for hours last night, sang, anything to keep them away . . . till my throat got too sore. Couldn’t fall asleep . . . couldn’t . . .”

“You can now. I’ll keep for watch. I’ll even sing for you—although you’ll prefer the rats.”

Doyle seemed to doze off for a while before waking up, suddenly lucid and intense. “Bodie, why’d you do it?”

“What?”

“You know what. I want an answer this time. That first time with us, you said it was The Game. Why did it happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“God damn you! We may never get out of this cellar. Be straight with me for once!”

“Why do you always think there’s answers, Sunshine? Sometimes there simply ain’t any. Or if there are, it’s better not to know.” Bodie stopped himself. This was hardly the time get annoyed with Doyle for his tenaciousness. It was what was keeping him alive at the moment, that obdurate, dogged nature. “And right now, it’s better for you not to talk. You’ll start the coughing up again.” He cut off as he heard the bolt drawn back on the trap door.

“Someone’s visitin’. Here, sit up a bit.” Bodie slid from behind Doyle and leaned him back against the wall. There was nowhere to hide in the open cellar, so he moved to one side of the stairs and stood with his hands clutched behind him as if he was still tied. Doyle instinctively tucked his feet to one side to conceal the fact they were free. In the dimness of the cellar it was possible their captors wouldn’t notice until too late.

Sheen came down the steps, gun ready in one hand, a metal box in the other that Bodie presumed was an explosive device. Another man followed him closely, also with a gun.

“Hope you’ve been quite cosy down here,” Sheen said. “Didn’t mean to keep ye waiting, but I had some arrangements to make wi’ some friends o’ mine. I’ll be leaving jolly ol’ England very shortly now, but I wanted ta leave ye both a pressie first. You did launch me on me new career, after all.”

“How kind,” Bodie replied lightly, “and we didn’t get you a thing.”

“Oh but ye did. You bought me a death sentence. An’ y’gave me a choice o’ going back ta the gaol to collect it, or rejoinin’ me former colleagues in a cause I’d damn near forgot. I’m rememberin’ it now, though. It’s comin’ back to me real clear. I have ta do something for ye in return, don’t I?”

“You’d have gone back to it sooner or later, Sheen,” Doyle put in, purposely drawing the man’s attention from his partner. “Weasels like you don’t change. Or as our boss would say, ‘dogs return to their vomit.’ You just went to ground for a while to get your guts back cause you were scared. And you’re scared now, Danny boy, plenty scared.”

“You’ve got the nerve, I’ll give ye that, curly,” Sheen sneered. “You’d best watch yer mouth.”

Bodie’s gaze slipped to Sheen’s companion who was beginning to take an interest in the verbal sparring.

“Why? Might as well let you know what I think of you, you low-life crud. You’re going to kill us just the same, either way.”

“Yeah, but I can make you _wish_ it’d come a lot quicker . . .” Sheen moved to Doyle and took a handful of hair, jerking back his head to strike the wall. “You limey bastards are all alike! Never let a bloke alone, no matter what, no matter how much he tries. Can’t ye see I didn’t want this? Why couldn’t ye leave me in peace? Why couldn’t you—”

Doyle swung is knees up neatly into the man’s groin with all the force left in his body. Sheen crumpled with a shrill scream and the other man’s gun jerked away from Bodie who tackled him immediately. It took only seconds for Bodie to lay him out on the cellar floor and grab the gun. It was a second too long. Doyle had spent his last on that kick, and Sheen had recovered from it enough that he was holding Doyle down with a knee on his back, one hand pulling his head back by the hair to a painful angle, the other pressing the gun against Doyle’s temple.

“Back off!” Sheen yelled at Bodie. “Drop the piece or I’ll splatter ‘is curls all over the floor!”

Instead, Bodie aimed the gun directly between Sheen’s eyes. “Do it.”

Sheen hesitated, disconcerted, then grinned. “You want to see ‘im suffering instead?” He ground his knee harder in Doyle’s back causing him to cry out in agony. “Put down the gun, copper.”

Some spirit was left in Doyle. He hissed out through gritted teeth, “Kill him, Bodie. Go ahead; he’ll kill me anyway . . . shoot!”

“Shut up!” Sheen brought his full weight down, pressing the cuffed hands into Doyle’s back. Doyle screamed. Sheen looked at Bodie. “Well, copper? Mexican standoff.”

In the darkness of the cellar, Bodie’s eyes seemed to glow with a hard, unnatural light. “Not quite. I’m not Mexican.”

In a flash, his aim switched, and he blasted the gun from Sheen’s hand, the bullet passing a scant inch from Doyle’s head. Sheen’s weapon fired at almost the same instant, the bullet spending harmlessly in the wood pallet on the other side of Doyle. Sheen’s good hand reached frantically for the dropped gun, and Bodie didn’t even bother to warn him not to try it. He simply shot him in the face.

Bodie ran for Doyle and pulled him up out of the water. He frantically searched Sheen’s pockets with one hand until he found the key to the cuffs.

Doyle lay limply against him when his arms were freed. His teeth were still gritted against the pain, but he managed to say, “Didn’t know . . . your night vision . . . was so good. That first . . . shot . . . couldn’t have . . . done as well meself.”

Bodie rubbed his face against Doyle’s wet curls, waiting for his heart to return to his chest. “It isn’t, mate. I was aiming for his shoulder.”

* * *

George Cowley had always been careful to avoid any form of favouritism in his organization, at least where the job itself was concerned. The best way of accomplishing that, however, was to recognize his own weaknesses and keep a check on them. His special fondness for Bodie was something he acknowledged to himself and made certain it worked _for_ him rather than against him. Unlike his partner, Bodie’s loyalties lay strictly for individuals rather than causes, and where Doyle could be convinced on idealistic principles, Bodie required more. Cowley had a paternal pride in moulding Bodie into something more than a mercenary. From a soldier of fortune fighting only for his own sake, Bodie now fought for something beyond himself, whether he would consciously admit it or not. But unlike Doyle, who worked first and foremost for justice and CI5 as a force for good, Bodie worked for George Cowley.

Cowley knew this and used it ruthlessly. He permitted his pet barbarian more leeway than anyone else in CI5, enjoyed his feisty backtalk, let him break rules. He was aware that the other agents had not missed this and used that to his purpose as well. Competition drove efficiency. But Cowley also tended to come down harder on Bodie than anyone else when he stepped too far over the line. And unlike Doyle who tended to become sullen, rage back or fly into a tantrum when scolded, Bodie generally would listen humbly, take his licks with a stiff military posture and much better grace.

Cowley felt he knew Bodie better than anyone else knew him, certainly better than his partner knew him. Doyle tended to wear blinders when judging character, and seldom saw much deeper than the surface. Cowley, however, recognized the complexity of the man, and decided it was time to dig even deeper . . . or lose Bodie to the proverbial jungle forever.

When Bodie reluctantly let him into his flat, Cowley noted the pallor and obvious lack of sleep in the well-cut features. He chose to ignore the semi-packed bag on the table.

“I’ve just come from hospital. Doyle is doing well, they tell me. The pneumonia is on the mend, but it’ll likely be at least a week before they dare release him.”

Bodie’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, I heard.”

Cowley pulled a bottle out of his overcoat pocket. “I brought some malt scotch.”

“No thanks.”

The older man went to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses and filled them. He returned and held one out to Bodie. “Drink it.” His eyes made it more than an offer; it was a test of authority.

Bodie took the glass and gulped the drink. “I don’t need this, y’know, just to hear that I’m out on my ear. I’ve already punched the clock to save you the bother.”

“If you mean you’ve resigned, I’ve not seen any paperwork to that effect.”

“Screw the soddin’ paperwork! I’m out, and you must’ve known that when you came here.”

“Your resignation is not accepted, 3.7.”

Bodie laughed bleakly. “Is that right? Well it’s not the bloody army, is it? I don’t have to serve out my hitch.”

“Aye, you do. Until I say otherwise.”

“That’s in the fine print, I suppose?” Bodie mocked, draining his glass.

Cowley promptly refilled it. “It is.”

“Not that it matters, you know. I’ve jumped ship before.”

“Not mine, you haven’t.”

Bodie looked at him, then shook his head in disbelief. “I always knew you were a contrary old sod, but this is more than I figured. If I’d been begging to stay in the mob, you’d be for pitchin’ me out, wouldn’t you?”

Cowley smiled. “Perhaps. Drink your drink, Bodie. And for heaven’s sake, sit down.”

Automatically, Bodie did as he was told and Cowley, filled his glass for the third time, then sat down across from him.

“Liquoring me up isn’t going to change my mind. You know you can’t make me hang in. Even Doyle knew that much and he can be as dense as a wood block.”

“What he doesn’t know yet is that if you leave, he leaves.”

Bodie’s eyes widened. “What? What’s this rubbish? What’s he to do with me?”

“You’re a team. I made you that. Half a team’s no good to me.”

“So team him with somebody else.”

“It’s far too late for that. You’ve been together too long. It’s like a marriage, your blood’s mixed.”

“Ever heard of divorce? It’s been around since the Church of England.”

Cowley eyed him shrewdly. “For irreconcilably differences? No, lad, if you go, he goes.”

“Don’t give me that,” Bodie exploded. “If one of us bought it—”

“I wouldn’t keep the other a week. I’ve seen it too often before. It never works. Something vital goes out of the survivor when it was a good team. And you and Doyle are good.”

“ _Were_ good,” Bodie muttered, taking another drink.

“All right, _were_ good. And you can be again if you can get over this business. Without Doyle, you’d be a rogue, like Barry Martin maybe. You’d be on the take at the first viable offer. Or become even more unstable than Tommy McKay.” Cowley didn’t believe that for a moment, but he knew it fit with Bodie’s own professed self-image.

“That’s a lie,” Bodie snapped. “If you believe that, you should want me out, you bastard.”

Cowley ignored the outburst and continued, “Without you, Doyle would freeze. He shoots to impress you now, you know. Oh, he doesn’t realize it, but it’s partially true. He’s frozen before on the trigger. You keep his head out of the clouds; force him to see reality. He doesn’t quite believe in his own mortality, you see. He doesn’t have your survivor’s instincts.”

“A hell of a lot of good they’ve done me this time, eh? Ray’s in hospital, near dead because of me, because I went after Sheen that day, without checking. Oh, he had a good reason for hating us, I’ll give the bastard that. But it was me that caused it, not Ray.” He swallowed the last of the liquid in the glass, and it was he that reached for the bottle this time. “Oh, and d’ya want to hear the topper, Cowley? I made all the mistakes at the warehouse, walked in there like a raw recruit just off the ship. No backup, no call-in, nothing. Just because I guessed you’d’ve pulled me in. You would’ve, and you would’ve been bloody right! He almost died because of me, and now you want me to give it another try? Not fuckin’ likely.”

Cowley sipped his whisky and smiled. “I thought it was Doyle who swallowed guilt from a large ladle. I never figured you to suffer the same malady. Or is it self-pity?”

Bodie leaned forward earnestly. “Aren’t you listening to me? Even if you can forget it, Ray won’t. How can he?”

“Och, don’t be daft. Doyle’s put your arse in a sling a few times, himself. He’ll count up his own mistakes before he starts tallying yours. They’ll come out pretty even, I suspect.”

The younger man stood and walked away a few steps, back turned toward Cowley. “You don’t understand. There’s more to it than that.”

Cowley hesitated. “I understand all I need to. All I want to at the moment.”

Bodie swung around, eyes catching with Cowley’s. “You only think you know—”

“I know enough,” Cowley clipped sternly. “Save your confessions for a preacher, Bodie. You can keep your personal business to yourself; it’s not my concern.”

“That’s rich! I thought your nose was in everything.”

“It is,” Cowley barked, suddenly uncomfortable with the issue, “and don’t you forget that.” He made an impatient gesture. “It’s all a tempest in a teapot. These . . . situations blow over in time. Personalities don’t change. Don’t make it more than it is, Bodie. You and Doyle are the same as you were before—”

“Before the unspeakable happened?” Bodie put in dryly.

Cowley glared at him. “Before that Ann Holly business upset the apple cart and you let yourself be stupid enough to be jealous.”

“Jealous!?” Bodie was appalled. “It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“Och, man, for once in your life do a wee bit of introspection. She threatened the team, an’ that’s come to mean more to you than anything else, whether you concede it or not. The Holly woman was a typhoon that endangered that boat. The sea is still riled up, but storms end and the waters level out. It’ll all cool down soon and go back to normal if you use some good sense and a whit of patience.”

“You sound like you’ve seen it before, sir,” Bodie said softly.

Cowley smiled ruefully. “If you live long enough, lad, you see it all.” He scowled and took the bottle back, shoving in the cork and back in his pocket. “An’ if you keep drinkin’ like this, you’ll not live long enough to see grey hair even. Go to bed; get some sleep, for god’s sake. We’ve talked enough drivel for one night.”

As Cowley open the door to leave, he paused and looked back. His expression was kind. “Did this help at all, son?”

Bodie smiled. “Yes, sir. And I’ll see what I can do about righting that boat.”

* * *

Nine days later, Bodie picked Doyle up from hospital. Doyle had experienced a setback and been forced to remain in care longer than expected, but was assured his recovery was going well. He felt fairly good, although he had to admit there were moments he’d rather take a nap than play rugby.

He eased a sideway look at his partner. “Did Cowley order you to pick me up?”

“Nope.”

“Then why? You’ve been nowhere for days.”

“That’s not fair. I called you every day.”

“Didn’t come to hospital,” Doyle pointed out peevishly.

“I was busy.”

“Oh, yeah?” The cheerfulness in Bodie’s voice worried him. Along with something else. “Where the hell are we going? This is opposite either of our flats.”

“Convalescent home. Don’t worry, it’s very nice. You’ll like it.”

“Are you joking? I don’t need—”

“Ray?” This time the voice was serious and held a note of entreaty.

“What?”

“Would you trust me on this? Please.”

Doyle thought about that seriously. After a long pause he said, “Okay.” He yawned, put his head back and went to sleep.

* * *

It was the jolting that woke him. They were on a rough country lane that he recognized immediately. He sat bolt upright and stared wide-eyed at the driver. “What the bloody hell? What are we doing _here_?”

Bodie grinned. “It’s a surprise.”

“You got that right. Listen, mate, I’m really not up for—”

“I bought it.”

Doyle’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way as Bodie pulled the car up and shut off the engine. It was the same cottage, but it had been spruced up a bit. The garden had been mown and the windows had been washed. There was a new front door that looked considerably more secure than the original. All in all, it had a rustic, homey, lived-in appearance.

“When—what . . . how . . . why—” He ran out of interrogatories and just gaped.

Bodie held up his hand. “To be fair, it’s actually in escrow. But I put up enough security that the agent gave me the key and let me start some repairs. He figured since it was your cousin it wouldn’t be a problem. It’s in both our names. Or will be.”

Doyle slowly opened the car door and got out. Bodie followed suit.

“I don’t understand,” Doyle said, mystified.

Bodie sighed and leaned back against the car. “I thought we needed a place we could safely beat the crap out of each other.” He hesitated before adding, “Or do the other thing. Although I hope we have options for the . . . loving thing.”

Doyle met his eyes squarely. “So you can say it now?”

“Just barely. It still kind of sticks in me throat. But I’m done running. What about you?”

“That’s some proposal.”

“It’s not a proposal, it’s a commitment.”

Doyle shook he head disapprovingly. “Hey, no cow, no milk.”

“I left the Cow in London.”

Abruptly and helplessly, they both began to laugh and once started they couldn’t seem to stop. At last, winded and still snorting a little, Doyle spoke, “God, mate, I just got out of hospital. You’re killin’ me here.”

Bodie wiped the laugh-tears from his eyes. “As the Cow would say, ‘och, laughter is the best medicine, lads!’ or one of his other dead-boring clichés. But let’s get you in the house. I got in some supplies last night. I’ll do up some tea. You look knackered.”

The inside of the cottage was also improved from what Doyle recalled. It had been whitewashed, there was a new rug, and the stale smell was gone. He lay down on the sofa while Bodie puttered in the small kitchen. While he hadn’t quite assimilated what was happening, oddly enough he wasn’t feeling the need to rush it. For once in his life, he was willing to let the situation flow naturally. All his answers would come sooner or later, and until they did, he was incongruously content. Here he was, only a few yards from where he had been raped—for the second time!—and he felt safe as houses. To be sure, the second time he had been the sodding poster child for the old canard about “asking for it”. But he decided not to think about any of that now and blamed his apathy on exhaustion, the pneumonia, and the sheer joy of being alive at all.

Bodie brought over a tray and put it on the table. Doyle sat up and grabbed a sandwich. He observed the cottage as he chewed. “You _have_ been busy.”

“Told you. Of course, I hired out some of it. We still need some work on the roof and we’ll want a bigger water heater.”

“ _We_?”

Bodie was diffident, staring fixedly at his mug. “I told you that, too. Unless you’re dead set against it, that is. I’m not going to force you into anything.”

Their eyes met and held for an endless time, both remembered and not yet able to grasp and absorb those memories. It seemed such a daunting task, it was exhausting to contemplate sorting it now. It was Doyle who decided which way to go.

“How the hell did you pay for this? Since when do you have ‘escrow’ money laying around?”

Relieved, Bodie chuckled. “Just because I’m not as cheap as you, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to guard a penny. Besides, I had the advantage of Hanson’s inability to beat a straight flush and Murphy’s abysmal judge of the ponies.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t pay full load. Madge’s husband’s a wanker.”

There was a long silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, but it _was_ slightly awkward. Bodie couldn’t think of a single inane joke, and Doyle found it hard to locate his trusty self-righteousness. _We’re on an unknown island_ , Bodie thought, _but at least we’re on land_.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Doyle uttered finally. “I was sure you’d be gone.” He ran his hands through his hair, chewed his lip and gave Bodie the bald truth, “I was _terrified_ you’d be gone.”

“I almost was,” Bodie confessed, flushing. “I’m sorry, but I panicked.”

“What changed your mind, then?”

“Cowley.”

For the second time that day, Doyle was flabbergasted.

Bodie nodded. “Yeah, surprised me as well. After everything that happened with Sheen, reckoned he’d be glad to see the back of me.”

Doyle snorted. “You? Nah, he thinks you’re the best thing since haggis. And I’m the one that wigged out. I didn’t come right out and tell him what happened when I tried to resign, but he definitely twigged there was something nasty going on.”

Bodie nodded. “He did, but he didn’t get it all right. I’m pretty sure he thinks I just made a pass at you and you were either deeply offended or that you accepted it and was having a hard time dealing with the afterglow.”

Doyle gave a forlorn smile. “Well, that’s been much happened, innit? Minus the brutal beating and sexual assault.”

 _Oy_ , Bodie thought _, got there too fast._ He said quickly, “He told me I was just jealous and implied that I was making my claim. He was dead positive it was all about Ann Holly.”

“Ann?” Doyle considered that, then laughed in amazement. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve even thought about her since . . . well, that night.”

 _Shit_ , Bodie thought, _there are lions and tigers and bears on this island_. He waited on the explosion that miraculously did not come. Doyle just shrugged and yawned widely.

“Listen, mate, I’m still knackered. Do you mind if I have a lie down?”

“Of course not,” Bodie replied eagerly. “The bed’s made up.”

“Ta.” Doyle went into the other room, and Bodie watched him go with a feeling of hope and astonishment. A new creature was Raymond Doyle.

* * *

Doyle sauntered out of the bedroom at sunset looking considerably better. He’d taken a quick bath to get the hospital off him and put on loose sweatpants and a white wool jumper. He smiled sweetly at Bodie, “Something smells good.”

It was summer, but Bodie had lit a fire against the evening chill. “Just some pasta. You hungry?”

“Yeah, I could eat. It’s got to be better than the muck in hospital.”

Bodie brought out the pasta, salad and bread and they tucked in. Bodie poured them some red wine while taking a careful gage of Doyle’s emotional temperature. It was serene, even placid. But there was bound to be a lightning bolt in there somewhere. Bodie desperately needed to find a ground before everything blew to cinders.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Doyle choked on the garlic bread. “What?!”

Bodie took a deep breath before continuing, “I just think it’s only fair.”

Doyle opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again, staring at Bodie look he’d grown a third eye.

“Listen, Ray, I know what’re thinking—”

“No, mate, you have _no_ idea what I’m thinking.”

 _Oh, ho_ , Bodie thought _, here’s the first crackle. Storm on the way._ But it oddly made him happy. At least it was a glimmer of the Ray he knew and not the plaster saint he’d picked up from hospital.

“Then tell me,” Bodie invited.

Doyle stood up suddenly and moved to the window, looking out toward the stable. “You think if I treat you the same way you treated me—rape, to be precise—then I’ll feel _so_ much better about meself and all will be forgiven.”

“Isn’t that what you were thinking?” Bodie asked cautiously.

“Not in the least. I was thinking that you want me to do that so you can stop feeling so damn guilty.”

Bodie flushed, feeling his own temperature inch to squall level. “You’re wrong, Sunshine. I don’t want to get raped at all. Not for your fictitious sense of inadequacy or for my imaginary guilty conscience. Because both of those visions are bullshit anyhow.”

Doyle turned around, startled. “How can you say that?”

“What we did was just in our nature. Like the scorpion and the frog. If we can’t change our natures, maybe we can, I dunno, maybe change our actions.”

“So what are you talking about?”

“Let’s try it the other way,” Bodie suggested hopefully.

Doyle blinked, and then with mock surprise. “You mean there’s _another_ way?”

“I’m heard rumours to that effect. I’ve no experience myself, but maybe it’s worth the try.”

“Me fucking you minus the nose bleeds and the black eyes?” Doyle seemed to ponder the idea, but Bodie could see the twinkle of humor in his eyes. “At the least, it’d be a novelty.”

“For both of us,” Bodie pointed out.

* * *

There was a storm anyway, but it had transformed into a healing thing. Powerful, necessary and euphoric.

Doyle crooning to him, sliding sensual fingers over heated flesh, whispering exciting but comforting images, seeking his private core of fantasy. He sank his mouth to the Bodie’s centre, leaving the hardening penis with a gentle, knowing tongue. Bodie cried out, then clutching at Doyle’s head involuntarily, face transfixed with the ecstasy of it.

He was burning, searing, lifting . . . And when Doyle moved to take him, Bodie found he wanted that as well. Wanted power now as well as gentleness. Desired the hard grip on his arms, the overwhelming kiss that swallowed his breath, the quick strong thrusts deep inside him, sparking flickers of lightning through his blood as the invader touched the hidden nerve.

When it was over, they were both bathed in sweat, sticky with the result of the storm. Bodie was shaking harder than ever, his arm covering his face. But he let Doyle hold him and comfort him through this newfound surrender that was not defeat.

Later, Bodie lay sleepily against Doyle’s shoulder, his entire being limp and deliciously relaxed. Doyle kissed him tenderly, gently, taking the last of the passion out in slow measures, savouring the final warm beats.

Doyle felt more peaceful than he could remember. He suddenly realised that the self-respect he thought he’d lost had been there all along.

* * *

They took a walk in the sunshine the next morning, inspecting their new property.

“So there’s a nice pub in the village?”

“Yeah, The King’s Horn. Very old style, not a fern in sight.”

“How’s the barmaid?”

Bodie gave him a suspicious look. “Should I know?”

Realising where Bodie was fishing, Doyle laughed. “Com’on, mate. Neither of us are ever going to give up women. We’d go mad. It’d be a murder/suicide case in six months.”

Bodie let out his breath in relief. It had been a matter that concerned him, and it was very good to know that Ray didn’t consider that type of commitment reasonable for them either. “Her name is Mauve, and she’s very well set up. And the girl at the fish & chips shop has enormous tatas.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kathy, I think. She’s got very pretty eyes, too.”

Doyle snickered. “Since when to you look at eyes?”

“Just yours, my Angelfish.”

Doyle stopped and looked at him with exasperation. “I swear, Bodie, if you start getting sentimental on me—"

Bodie just laughed.

Eventually they named the cottage “Consequences.”


End file.
